The most exciting event of my childhood was going to the circus.

The smell of cotton candy, peanuts and buttered popcorn

mingled with the snap of the whip and the frenzy of lions’ roars.

Silence reigned as we watched the barefoot woman on the trapeze  

release and fall into the arms of her partner who dropped her.

She seized his foot and climbed to his shoulders then waved.

A white faced clown with a red nose circled the tent on a unicycle,

oblivious to everything until he ran into a pile of green poo 

next to a trumpeting elephant standing on hind legs.

The clown fell headfirst into the droppings,

sat up and wiped his eyes, then pulled a

bucket from his pocket to pour water over his head.

Our ungainly gang of nine-year-olds roared with laughter.

The ringmaster, his top hat askew, blew a whistle and pointed to

horses circling, their riders doing back flips and handstands.

After they exited, tigers followed in a line to sit at attention.

The largest opened his mouth to let the trainer insert his head.

We held our breath, the clown juggling pots and pans.

Then we yelled ourselves hoarse as stilt walkers turned

balloons into dogs, releasing them to descend on the crowd.

Years later, I am the only one who wants to go when the circus comes.

The clowns are not funny, my friends say, the acrobats worn and old,

I go alone and sit with my bag of popcorn, checking my watch

while trying to recreate those feelings of exhilaration and excitement.

When I leave, I am much older than when I entered,

disillusioned by the unraveling of my memories of enchantment.